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You write of Icarus.
I saw the poem on your fridge.
A constant reminder.
Yet how many candles must we burn before we have our wings?
I see in your eyes you do not fear the sun, nor the dampness of the sea.
What do you fear?
I fear I’ll love the sun.
I fear I’ll love the clouds.
For falling is inevitable.
Will you be there to catch me?
We’ve gone through all the candles.
I have my wings.
Take me higher.
For I am falling.

Love me like summer.
I’ll be the warmth on your skin.
The high light in your eyes.
Do not escape to the shade.
We have the wind.
Night is our solace.
The black lace that binds us together.
Covering our sins.
But it is in the light that I see.
Who I am.
Who I want to be.
More than a season.

Love me like summer.
For I have fallen.
Fear the calling of winter.
Only time will bring spring.

I stand before you.
My hands are empty.
My pack is light.
You say I have nothing.
But I have everything.
For my power lies in my decisions.
My knowledge is laced in my words.
My ambition is reflected in my goals.
And my feet are walking out the door.
I will never have nothing.

How long before my eyes don’t drift to the door?
Waiting for you to walk in.
How long before our ghosts fade in places I revisit alone.
You kissing me against that wall.
Our walks in the night.
You next to me in bed.
When will I not be able to recall the sound of your laughter?
When will I forget your touch?

We had love and in an instant it was gone in a cloud of smoke.
My most elaborate trick.
I even believed it myself.
That I didn’t love you.
That I didn’t care.

I thought the white rabbit always reappears.
Like nothing happened.
Waiting for the next show.

My eyes still drift to the door.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Willing.
The crowd is gone.
Believing the show is over.
And I have never left the stage.

What are you willing to lose?
Do you undervalue your own life so much that you would risk it over this?
Are you so selfish to not even consider the impact of your theft.
Will it be a daughter?
A father?
A friend?
All for a cheap thrill.
You may forget this one night.
But Every. Single. Night.
For the rest of your life you will remember.

Are you willing to lose a piece of yourself?
Your freedom?
Your pride?
Are you willing to lose your trust in yourself?

Or was it even there?
It scares me.
Where was your mind?
Were judgment and sense stored so far in the back of your head they couldn’t be recalled?
Where was your heart?
No doubt it was racing, did you refuse to listen to it?
To its alarm?

What if you were to go back there?
To slip into that state of mind so easily like the first time.
Are you willing to risk someone’s life. Are you willing to have their blood on your hands?

Are you willing to lose yourself?
To lose your sense of reasoning.
To become reckless.
Dangerous.
A Murderer.
Is that really you?

Are you willing to lose your life?
Can you so easily leave your family and friends in mourning?
Wondering if there was something more that they could of done?

All for a few beers.
Perhaps one too many.

(I wrote this after a friend got a DUI last week. Thankfully no-one was hurt. It could have so easily been a completely different story. What are you willing to lose?)

It always starts the same.
My story writes itself you know.
You do, because your story wrote me out of it.
It wasn’t an end of a chapter.
You’re an anthology and I was a sentence.
One you refused to punctuate and more importantly end.
I became run-on, fragmented.
I’m a novella.
Rich in detail and character.
Analyze me.
Think of what isn’t written or seen behind those black bars on the pages. It’s worth it.
It’s time to put a period on the end of that sentence. But it doesn’t mean I’ll stop reading it.
Cause I have.
Over and over and over again.
You are not a chapter in my life.
You are the black ink on the pages.
It never ends the same.
Now I write in colour.